Chapter 16

A Terran midshipman, whose civilian freighter was undergoing maintenance at the Enterol VI facility, waved a finger at the viewscreen behind the bar and bellowed, “I told ya!” Turning to his cohort on the next stool, he shouted—despite being only inches apart—“That blue bastard couldn’t win an anbo-jytsu match even if he could see through his helmet.”

Fred didn’t like Terrans. He could tolerate most of the ones who wore Starfleet uniforms; they, at least, seemed to have some social training. It was the unruly ones that bothered him, especially the ones who drank that unpalatable solution they referred to as “beer.” Fred didn’t like the taste of beer. Or the color of beer. And he particularly didn’t like having to determine if he should serve beer at nine degrees Celsius, or at thirteen degrees Celsius, or at “room temperature,” whatever that meant. As near as he could figure, every request was contingent on which part of their planet the Terran was from, and he wished they’d make up their minds and set a standard.

These two Terrans, in particular, were full of beer, and Fred liked them about as much as he liked beer.

“Fifty says he smashes the red one,” the other Terran shouted back. Reaching into a shoulder pouch, he grabbed a handful of transport payment chips and dropped them, loudly, on the bar.

“NO BETTING,” Fred said sternly as he stepped in front of the two. Actually, he loved betting; foolish wagers by drunken travelers added greatly to his coffers. But these two had overstayed their welcome. All he wanted from them was their exit.

“Oh, yeah?” the Terran on the left yelled at him. “Wad’ya gonna do about it?”

That’s when the combatant in blue swung the sensor end of his staff within a quarter inch of his rival’s chin; the rival in red ducked by spinning to the right in time to flip his staff, cushion end up, into the blue man’s solar plexus; and Fred, in shiny silver carapace, grabbed the puny Terrans by his upper pincers and carried them, clawing and screaming, into the station’s corridor. Leaning over them, his antennae waving just above their noses, Fred calmly stated:

“And don’t come back—beer breaths.”

Back inside, Fred counted the payment chips the Terran had dropped. More than enough to cover their bar bill. At the other end of the bar, his best customer sat up, apparently awakened by the relative quiet of the room now that no one was shouting at the screen. Waving an empty glass at Fred, the big guy looked up at the red-and-blue blur of anbo-jytsu opponents crashing into each other.

Suddenly the sports image was replaced by the interlocking polygon logo of the Federation News Service. “We interrupt this programming for an important newsbreak,” an anonymous voice said, and then the image changed again, to show a familiar-looking golden-follicled female.

“This is Eisla Darvis,” the female said, “reporting for FNS from Space Station Deep Space 9, where the most valuable possession belonging to the people of Ferenginar was scheduled to go on display today, following the dedication of their new embassy here. But word has just reached this reporter”—and she paused for maximum dramatic effect—“that it is missing. Yes, the original hand-illustrated scroll containing the sacred Rules of Acquisition set down by Gint, the first Grand Nagus, over ten thousand years ago, has disappeared and is presumed stolen. The last persons known to have seen the scroll, the persons who appear to be responsible for its removal from the Ferengi Vaults of Opulence, are the current Grand Nagus, Rom”—a close-up image of Rom appeared onscreen—“and his brother, Quark, a bartender who also holds the title of ‘ambassador’ at the Ferengi Embassy.” A less than flattering portrait of Quark flashed onscreen—and remained for longer than seemed necessary in order to make a journalistic point. When the face of the reporter reappeared, she continued: “An investigation into the disappearance is now under way, and for now, that has triggered a suspension in travel to and from Deep Space 9. There is no word on when that suspension will be lifted.

“As for the repercussions for the Nagus and his brother, time will tell.

“This reporter, for one, will continue to seek the truth, and will continue to bring you updates on this evolving situation as details are confirmed. This is Eisla Darvis for FNS.”

Fred mixed a martini during the newsbreak and placed it in front of his typically thirsty customer. But the big-headed guy didn’t touch it. He just sat, transfixed, staring at the screen. When the report ended, he continued staring, apparently lost in thought. What’s bothering him? Fred wondered, and he was just about to ask, when a group of uniformed Andorians stepped through the door. Greeting them with a hearty welcome, the Enteroli barkeep began taking drink orders.

On the huge viewscreen behind the bar, the combatant in red knocked the blue fighter into the far corner of the arena with an unprecedented baln’jar twist. The action caught the customer’s eye and pulled him out of his reverie. As he picked up the fresh drink, he heard a growl of hunger from one of his stomachs. The big fellow considered his options for a moment, then ordered a basket of Aldebaran algae puffs.